Devil in the Details
by Angeliz
Summary: There's a dead man in Las Vegas, and Gil Grissom has never met such an enigma as Ryou Bakura or Yugi Motou. Written because Angeliz is curious as to who will win this one: Grissom or Bakura? Hiatus, but I will work on it again.
1. Chapter 1

Hello, once again, my fellow fanfictioners. I'm here today with a chapter fic-le gasp, that's new and different-in which I plan to pit two of my favorite characters against each other in a battle of sexiness...I mean, in a battle of wits. Ahem. Battle of wits. Yes. Anyway, it's a crossover fic, so before you start reading this and exclaim, "Angeliz is cracking up! This isn't a YuGiOh fic!" I should like to explain that, actually, yes it is. It will combine the ygo-verse with the CSI-verse, but the first chapter only contains CSI because...I think my excuse was that I wanted the first chapter to run like the intro on an episode of CSI. (You know, where we get the initial set-up of the case, and Grissom cues The Who with a snappy pre-credits one-liner?) And then in the following chapters I'll get to mixing things together.

Something like that, anyway.

But back to the point, assuming there is one-if you've read Angeliz's chapter fics in the past (which is a little scary because they were written a couple of years ago), you know that Angeliz has trouble finishing things. However, I promise to make a valiant effort with this fic, not only to finish it, but to finish it in a timely manner. Ficwriter's honor. So please read, and please review, and please stick around in the following chapters.

Enough of my blathering. On with the fic!

…

It was a dark night, a new moon night, as the stars twinkled down on the lights of Las Vegas. Over the bright neon strip they fared badly, but away from the heart of the city they lit the night sky like millions of scattered gemstones. Their still, cold light skipped idly past high-rise hotel-slash-casinos to illuminate suburbs of cookie-cutter homes, filled with sleeping people, before drifting onwards toward a cemetery. They paused, fondly, on a pale man near the gates, then moved on to glance off of the rows of polished granite.

Gil Grissom moved silently through the starlight, shoes whispering across the freshly shorn grass, blue eyes sharp. Normally, he would have no reason to be here in the dead of night—no pun intended, of course—but this was one of those cases that forced him from the realm of normalcy. A corpse in a graveyard was one matter; a freshly murdered corpse skulking between the tombstones was something entirely different.

All in a night's work, he supposed.

"Gil!" A rough voice rang out in greeting, effectively shattering the calm silence, its owner waving Grissom toward a smattering of red and blue light.

"Jim," he replied cordially, shifting his kit from right hand to left. The detective had paused near a particularly ornate chunk of marble, hands tucked into jacket pockets, and Grissom fell into step with him easily. "Do we have an ID on the vic?"

Captain Jim Brass nodded once, perfunctorily, and lapsed into his self-appointed expositionary role. "Christopher Binns, twenty-six, worked as a janitor at the Tangiers. Found his driver's license and employee identification in his wallet, along with some credit cards and a few ticket stubs. No cash to speak of."

"Cleaned out?"

"Judging by the fact that the wallet was lying next to the body? Probably." Brass shrugged, tone indicating scarce concern for the robbery portion of the current crime du jour. "Personally, I'm more interested in the cult activity."

Grissom quirked a brow; it all but disappeared into his silvering hairline. "Cult activity?"

"Apparently. Costume, funny symbols, the whole nine yards." The two slowed their steps as they drew near the perimeter, ducked beneath yellow tape with practiced grace. Grissom's face took on a more serious air as he glanced cursorily around the crime scene, pinpointing both the body and its sprawled effects.

The wallet had apparently since been bagged, but a strange collection of objects remained, dark patches on the scruffy green grass. What appeared to be a book, leather bound and half-crumpled, lay injured beside a smooth stone basin, and both were encircled by a number of indeterminate dark shapes. The basin had been overturned, spilling its contents into the earth, but a dark residue clung still to its insides, which would be useful once they got it back to the lab. The book appeared to have snapped its spine.

Frowning in concentration, Grissom stepped gingerly closer, eyes fixed on the shapes in the grass. Upon closer inspection, they were not actual objects, but jet-colored scorch marks, branded into the ground. He could not recognize their origin, though they seemed vaguely hieroglyphic—a possibility that intensified with the discovery of Egyptian text stamped across the book's cover. Grissom leaned nearer to the markings, intrigued, eyes bright behind their lenses.

And the next moment he was blinded.

The CSI blinked, straightening rapidly, as a cheerful female voice cut through his evidence-seeking haze. "Hey, Grissom. Interesting scene, huh?" Another flash brightened their surroundings momentarily, followed by the faint whine of a camera recharging. "You might want to move a few steps back. I'm right in the middle of photographing."

"So it would seem," he replied, nettled, his sight returning in blotches. "Good evening, Sara."

The woman grinned, a slight gap showing between her teeth, and resumed her photography with gusto. "I'm all set with the items around the body, here," she said, snapping off one last photo before trading camera for kit, "but Warrick could probably use some help with Christopher over there." She gestured a few yards distant, where a dark mass lay huddled on the ground, another dark mass kneeling over it.

Grissom fixed her with a typical Grissomian look, a wordless _which-of-us-is-the-supervisor-here?_, but acquiesced to her roundabout request, moving toward Warrick. The cadaver came into relief against the grass as he closed the distance between them, its skin pale as the nonexistent moonlight. Golden bands glittered at its wrists and throat, winking from the black depths of its cloak.

"No visible injuries," Warrick said lightly at the sound of Grissom's approaching footsteps, "but the look on his face—it's evil. This guy was pissed when he died."

"Or _because_ he died," Grissom speculated, squatting near the twisted form.

"Could be." Warrick's forceps glinted briefly as he touched them to the ink-black cloak, pulled them back with a flourish. "Hello, hello. Houston, we have a hair." The strand glimmered, long and silvery, twisting in the light breeze. "Female, blond. Suspect?"

"Or it could be the girlfriend." Sara's voice rang out over the space between them, a wallet-sized photo between gloved fingers. "Found this in the book. Looks like she was pretty close to the vic."

"Could still be a suspect," Warrick returned, shrugging as he bagged the hair. "Love can be a strong motive."

Grissom's head tilted slightly, his eyes thoughtful as he deliberately mangled Shakespeare. "To love, perchance to hate…ay, there's the rub."

…

Tbc. You know the drill; there's nothing to it: if you read it, you review it!


	2. Chapter 2

Mkay, so…that took a little longer than I expected it to. I blame school. First it was Research Paper Hell, then it was Scholarship Application Hell, then it was Homework Hell With Some Scholarship Application Hell Tossed in for Kicks, and then it was finally spring break. I spent the first days of it at an anime convention, which was the awesome, then spent the middle of it doing whatever the hell I felt like, but the last two days, I was writing this sucker! Yay me; please applaud here.

Okay, now that my sad and sorry need for recognition has been fed and my excuses made, here are a few notes on chapter two: First! This story takes place in a CSI time warp. I like Greg best in the lab, so he's not a full-fledged CSI in this mixed verse of mine. He's still the DNA guy. But don't worry; we'll still see plenty of him. Next, I'm a fan of CSI recaps at TWoP. So I'll be borrowing some terms from that, including "labitrail" (the hallways of the CSI building), "CSI central" (duh), and anything else that strikes my fancy. Oh, and this is more common sense than twop, but dko is short for "done keeled over." Fancy medical term, eh? And finally, I'm not a scientist, nor do I speak fluent Japanese. Forgive me my errors; let he who hath not sinned; yada yada and all that jazz.

Now, on with the fic! Chapter two, Devil in the Details…action!

…

Yugi Motou sighed to himself as he eyed the pile of multicolored chips near his elbow. It wasn't supposed to be this easy. He knew it wasn't supposed to be this easy. And from the looks he was getting, his fellow gamblers knew the same. /They think I'm cheating./

/They assume so, yes,/ returned the voice in his head, a faint tone of amusement rippling beneath the words. /But only because they do not understand the heart of the cards./

/They understand "security," though,/ said Yugi, lips pressed together in a nervous twitch of a smile. /Yami, maybe we should leave. I'm going to get reported./

/For what?/ challenged the voice, both reasonably and with undue confidence. /You haven't been cheating, aibou; there's nothing they can do to you./

/All the same,/ Yugi said as he folded his hand, /I'd rather not get killed over a game of poker./ He paused, a quirking grin at one corner of his mouth, then added coyly, /Again./

Yami bristled in the back of his mind, his ethereal voice going gruff. /That was entirely Kaiba's fault, Yugi. You remember that./

/Oh, I remember it perfectly./ With a polite nod at the rest of the table, Yugi stood and turned to leave, winnings scooped discreetly into a pocket. /And your memory seems just a little off./

A cloud of indignation touched the back of his mind briefly, eliciting a slight chuckle from Yugi as he moved through the crowded casino, head bowed. Somewhere to his left, the wildly gleeful chiming of a slot machine indicated luck for some tourist or another, and Yugi sidestepped to avoid the rapidly growing crowd around the winner. "Forty million!" a high-pitched voice shrieked happily, "Forty million, I can't believe it!"

Yugi rolled his eyes amusedly and walked directly into someone's shirt.

"_Shitsurei…_ Excuse me," he managed, stumbling slightly with the language before correcting himself. "I'm very sorry; I wasn't watching where I was going." He could feel his face heating as he blinked upward at the stranger, who, like most, was a good two or three heads taller than he. The man shifted in response, one hand running through his darkly curled hair.

"No problem, kid," the stranger said as he shifted his silver case slightly. "I wasn't paying much attention either, to be honest."

Yugi's blush deepened at the word "kid," but he didn't bother to correct the man, merely nodded politely in response. Unless he knew he would be seeing someone again, Yugi rarely called people on his age; it just happened too often to bother with. /And even more so, since we got to this country./

/You are not that short, Yugi,/ the voice in his head chided him mildly. /People here are just ridiculously tall./

/Kaiba would feel right at home./

"Kid?"

"Oh!" Yugi exclaimed, snapping back. "I'm sorry, I spaced out for a moment." He made to step out of the man's path, but as he did, the voice caught up to him once more.

"Hey, by the way, how long have you been hanging around here?"

Turning once more, Yugi bit at his lip, calculating the hours in his head. "I guess about eight hours; since 9 p.m. at least. Why?"

The man was now pulling a photocopied ID badge from his shirt pocket, which he smoothed and handed to Yugi. "Did you happen to see this guy working here at all? His shift ended around eleven, but anytime before that?"

Yugi's eyes moved carefully over the photograph, taking in the details of the man's thin, pale face and cropped brown hair. /I don't remember him…Yami?/

/Yes, actually,/ the voice mused, wonderingly. /There was a strange presence about him; it's the only reason I took any notice./

"Hai…yes, I mean; I did see him earlier," Yugi said, returning the photo. After a short pause, he added somewhat reflectively, "Near the blackjack tables."

The man tucked the photocopied picture back into his shirt pocket and ran his hand through his hair once more. "Did you notice him acting strange, talking to anyone? That sort of thing?"

/Not talking to anybody,/ Yami answered, his memory brushing Yugi's.

"But he was acting sort of…weird. Quiet, not moving much. _Yami no_…dark? He didn't want anybody near him."

The man's blue eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and Yugi could almost see the information filing itself away in his mind. He looked as if he were working up another round of questions, but before he could put any of them into words, the cell phone at his hip buzzed impatiently, cutting him off.

Holding up one finger in the universal _just a second _gesture, the man flipped his phone open and held it to his ear, moving a few paces distant, though not entirely out of Yugi's hearing distance. "Brown."

"Hey, Warrick. Did you get the vic's employee information yet?" a female voice asked from the other end of the line, muffled with static and sounding somewhat impatient.

"Yeah, Sara, I got it; I'm on my way back to the lab right now. I was just talking to this kid who says he saw our guy Christopher a few hours before he died."

Yugi started, face paling. "You mean he's dead?"

The man, Warrick, turned around to look at him once more, realizing rather belatedly that Yugi was still listening. "I'll see you in fifteen," he said into his cell phone, cutting off the woman's voice before snapping his mobile shut. "My name is Warrick Brown, I'm with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. We're currently investigating the murder of one of the casino employees."

Brow furrowing, Yugi nodded slightly, momentarily allowing his focus to seep away from the outside world. /I didn't know it was a murder investigation. Why would he ask _us_ about it?/

/An excellent question, aibou. Perhaps we should find out./

/Yami, he's with the police; I don't know if that's such a good idea./

The voice chuckled like dark velvet, a barely perceptible flash of light glinting briefly in the crowded casino. /He's a scientist, Yugi. He does not believe in magic./

/Maybe, but he'll definitely notice./

/Hn,/ Yami returned lightly, fixing the criminalist with an intense, searching sort of gaze. /Would you care to take a bet on that?/

/…Viva Las Vegas./

The deep voice chuckled dryly, directing itself at the man before him. "If I may ask, Mr. Brown…why ask _me_ about something like this?"

…

Doc Robbins had seen a lot in his years as a coroner—bodies stuffed with umbrellas, bodies reduced to human sludge, one memorable body that wasn't quite dead yet—and while this certainly was not the strangest of them, it definitely qualified for the list. No visible wounds, no evidence of asphyxia, no faint yet telltale indications of poisoning—it was as if the man had simply fallen over and decided to play cadaver. Intriguing, yet frustrating. And found in a graveyard, no less.

The soft swish of opening doors interrupted his thoughts, though he didn't look up, experience telling him to expect Gil Grissom with as much certainty as the man before him was certainly dead. And, sure enough, the voice confirmed it.

"What have you got for me?"

"Very little," he answered truthfully, prodding a bowlful of brain with his fingertip. "Still waiting for tox results, but right now it looks like a classic DKO."

Grissom quirked a brow, disbelief sketched lightly over his face. "People do not just drop dead, Albert."

"Well," the coroner returned casually, moving around the slab to reach for the preliminary report on his desk, "maybe you should tell him that. By all accounts, your vic is perfectly healthy—free of illness, injury, signs of foul play—his only problem is that he's dead."

"Quite the problem."

"Indeed. This might be of some interest to you, though." Doc Robbins leaned heavily on his crutch, shifting so as to reposition the man on the table. As he nudged the bluing limbs beneath fluorescent lighting, faint scarring began to become visible on the inner forearms, rippling like a spider's silk. "He has a number of these symbols carved all over his body. They look somewhat like ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, though that's just an educated guess."

"It's a good possibility," Grissom said, brow furrowing over the markings. "These symbols seem to be all over this guy—his body, his effects. His crime scene."

"Possible cult activity?"

"Or an obsessive interest in world history."

The doctor quirked a brow, his tone heavy with dark humor. "Gil."

"More likely the former," Grissom conceded, lips twitching to a slight grin and back, "but I like to keep my options open."

The coroner rolled his eyes, but before he could come up with a suitable reply, their conversation was interrupted by a shrill _beep_ at Grissom's hip. As he glanced downward, the nightshift supervisor's brows knit together in an expression of puzzlement, grip tightening on the preliminary findings. "Looks like Greg has something," he muttered, turning to retreat from the morgue with barely a whisper of rubber soles on linoleum. "Thanks, Doc. Call me if you find anything?"

"I always do," Al Robbins said, perfectly aware that he was addressing an already-empty room. He sighed, tolerantly past exasperation, and returned his attention to the evening's mystery cadaver.

…

Warrick shook his head for the hundredth time that night, pushing through double glass doors into the cool blue of CSI central. It was lucky his path was familiar, as he wasn't fully focused on anything in particular of the present. All he could think of was the encounter at the Tangiers, its sheer lack of logic and the sense of _not right_ laced through the entire thing like fine strands of splintering crystal.

When it came right down to it, he had no idea why the hell he had stopped that foreign kid for questioning. Considering the sheer multitude of people in and out of Vegas casinos on any given night, there was no reason to expect one spike-headed kid to have encountered the vic anytime before he'd died. Yet he had asked, and the kid had had information, delivered as it was through uncertain English and lengthy hesitations. But stranger yet was the odd itch of _knowing_ the kid would have something to say, even before Warrick had started questioning him.

"Yugi Motou," he murmured, as if the name would give him some explanation in itself. "Strange little guy."

"Who's that, man, your new boyfriend?"

"Nick!" Warrick exclaimed, snapping from his reverie to find himself just outside the DNA lab. "Nah, man, some kid I questioned over at the Tangiers. Saw our dead janitor a few hours before he died."

"Oh, right, the corpse in the graveyard. Wish I could get in on that; Catherine and I are just heading out on a routine home robbery."

Warrick gave an exaggerated wince, half-grinning. "Sounds exciting."

"Ah, shut up," Nick returned good-naturedly, smacking his colleague on the shoulder, brown eyes sparkling. "Hey, I have to go meet Cath. We get done early, though, I want a piece of this case!"

"Gonna have to take that up with Griss."

"Yeah yeah." Nick held up his silver case in a vague salute, turning on his heel before he could topple from walking backwards. "Later, man."

"See ya." Warrick ran a hand through his hair as he watched Nick leave, thoughts returning briefly to the kid at the casino. He had changed, somehow, with a single question; a question that, even now, Warrick couldn't honestly answer. "Why _did _I ask that kid in the first place?"

"Couldn't tell you. Get my page?"

Warrick started once more, slightly irritated with his jumpiness, and turned in response to the voice. "What page?"

Greg _hmm_ed, shaking his spiky head from his place half-in and half-out of the lab. "Guess not. Well, I'm waiting for Grissom to get back from the morgue; care to step into my lair in the meantime?" He waved a hand impressively, as if to gesture them into a grand mansion rather than his mad scientist's haven, and Warrick followed with a skyward roll of his eyes.

"Whatever you got, Greggo, it'd better be good."

"Nothing but the best for my guys on the nightshift." A grin twitched widely across his face, one of many indications of the lab tech's presence at that fabled fine line. Genius and insanity walked hand in hand within the LVPD, as evidenced by no small number of its employees. But by none more so than Gil Grissom.

"You rang?"

_Speak of the devil,_ Warrick thought with a trace smirk, crossing his arms over his chest as the supervisor swept into the DNA lab. He noticed Greg falter momentarily, his eccentricity dimming without actually departing, like a mist of sobriety veiling his madness.

"Just the man I was looking for," Greg said, voice quivering once before he could quash it. "I've still got the DNA running on the blood in your bowl, but I did get something interesting off the hair."

"What, does blondie have a record?" Warrick asked, lifting a dark brow.

"Nooo, and neither is she a _she_. Or a blond. The hair's XY and white as snow."

Grissom thought this over, lips puckering into the slightest frown. "So there was a male at the scene besides our victim. Albino? That would narrow things down a bit."

"Actually, no." Greg cocked his head, peering at the strand as if it were a great conversationalist and his new best friend. "Your guy does not carry the gene for albinism. Just has white hair."

"Bleached?" Warrick suggested, mind clicking through the options. "Old dude?"

"No and no. Naturally white and probably from a teenager."

"But not an albino," Grissom clarified, peering at Greg's results through thinly framed lenses.

"Nope. Sorry, chief."

Grissom considered this, Warrick taking the opportunity to send Greg a _look_, distinct and discreet. _'Chief?' Come on, man._

The techie only shrugged with a lopsided smile, rocking back and forth on the heels of his faded sneakers. "I'll let you know when I've got results back on the bloody bowl."

"Thanks, Greg," Grissom said, focused on the paper in his right hand as he wandered back into the fluorescence of the labitrail. As Warrick watched, several passing techs dodged the distracted supervisor routinely, clearing a path toward his office. A chuckle sounded in his throat at the sight, cut off by the sudden buzz of his cell phone.

"Sara?" asked Greg knowingly, not looking up from his test tubes.

"Later, Greggo."

"Tell her I said 'hey.'"

Warrick shook his head, eyes rolling yet again, and took off down the hall.

…

/That was hardly what I expected when Grandpa told me we were going to Las Vegas,/ Yugi sighed in his mind, stepping off the elevator and onto cushy hotel carpeting. /And speaking of Grandpa…let's not tell him about any of that./

A dark ripple of laughter filled the back of his mind, ruby eyes twinkling from the corridor of their souls. /You gave that man your name. If he calls you while we're here, you might not get the luxury of that decision./

Yugi groaned and turned a corner, fishing the pockets of his tight leather pants for the keycard to his room. /I panicked, Yami. What was I supposed to say?/

/Any number of things. You don't want to get involved, you have the right to withhold that information, your name is Seto Kaiba…/

/Yami!/

/It's a legitimate option, aibou./ The voice in his head glittered with innocuous mischief, calling to mind a playful crocodile just beneath the unbroken surface of the Nile. Yugi was certain the comparison had trickled from Yami's thoughts rather than his own, though he didn't comment on it, sliding his card into its slot in the door. Its tiny light flickered green just as the first, unexpected traces of magic seeped from behind lacquered wood, calling his darkness instantly to the border of their shared consciousness.

The puzzle shimmered as two minds became one, ruby glinting off amethyst, and Yugi brushed past the comforting warmth of their entwined souls and concentrated. /It doesn't feel like a threat. It's familiar, but…/

/But not, at the same time./ Yami nodded, fingers twirling the keycard cautiously. /Be on your guard, my own./

/Of course./

Swiping the card once more, they opened the door.

The room was dark, just as Yugi had left it hours earlier, though it now crackled thickly with defensive spells. The air was scented with incense and shadows, as well as the faintest traces of desert wind and…copper? It filled his nostrils, the sharp metallic tang more familiar than he would have liked; he could feel the darkness in his mind seize upon it instantly.

/Blood,/ Yami said harshly, /and spellcasting./

/And tealeaves./

/What?/

Yugi hesitated. /I think…I think it might be—/

Yami must have caught the thought before he completed it, for he reached out their hand and swiftly clicked on the light, body still blocking the door from closing fully. Yugi could feel the tense cautiousness in his muscles as his eyes swept the room, seeking out familiar shadows before resting on a shift of snowfall hair and a glimmer of ancient gold. A soft gaze met his own, panic and raw relief melting together in its depths, and a soft voice drifted toward him to match.

"Yugi, thank goodness. I wasn't sure which room was yours and which was your grandpa's."

The words came forth in a rush, though silence lent itself to reply, broken only by the short click of the door swinging shut. Two souls stared in astonishment through violet eyes tinted scarlet, although only one mouth gaped open between them. The object of their attention shifted self-consciously at the end of the bed, embarrassment glowing red across his vaguely feminine face, and bit his lip worriedly. "I-I'm very sorry for the intrusion, Yugi, but I wasn't sure where else to…oh, bugger."

/That's…definitely not Bakura./

Yugi shook his head silently, working his jaw back into place before a stray insect could buzz down his throat. Tearing his astonished gaze from bloodstained fabric and muddy boots, he summoned his voice, glad that with the influence of his darkness it had no chance of breaking into a squeak. The intruder simply watched him, waiting.

/It's…I mean, that's…/

"…Ryou?"

The boy smiled weakly in return, fingers resting lightly on the ring upon his chest. "What a coincidence?" he offered, and Yugi only caught the tremor in his voice a split second before he collapsed across the mattress.

/Never a dull moment,/ Yami intoned, and released their body to his partner's control.

…

TBC! "To read is to question, comment, and praise-slash-insult. To do all that is to review. Now review, my pretties! (Insert evil laughter here.)"


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: So. This story. It is technically on hiatus, but I stumbled across this in my documents folder, and I cleaned it up a bit and decided to post it as a show of good faith. Because I do intend to eventually come back to this (and I do have the plot mapped out in my head), but I don't have the time or the energy to devote to it now. This isn't a complete chapter, but it is a little something. Since I've been pretty inactive on here for a while. Eheh.

…

Somewhere beneath the flash of a camera and the whine of its recharge, Catherine Willows let slip an exasperated sigh, blowing bangs from her face. "This is ridiculous."

"Still nothin' on your side?"

"No footprints, no fingerprints, _still_ no signs of forced entry… It's like this thief popped out of nowhere, grabbed the loot, and poof."

"Gone." Nick sat back on his heels, toying idly with his own camera, and sent Catherine a sympathetic look through the open door. "Yeah, there's nothing in the hallway here, either. Is this guy _sure_ he didn't just, I dunno, misplace those books and whatever?"

She rolled her eyes expressively, tossing blond hair over her shoulder. "Doesn't seem like it. Mister Big Time Archaeologist keeps them locked up at all times, according to the family." Snapping another photo of nothing in particular, she began a slow circuit around the study, taking in the details of each carefully displayed knickknack. "Priceless, apparently."

"Figures." Nick frowned, a hint of frustration and southern accent bleeding into his voice. "Looks like I'm gonna miss out on Warrick's case. I'm not seeing this one wrapping up anytime soon." At the sound of a gasp, he tilted his head slightly, half-rising from the plush carpet. "Cath?"

"I think I have something," Catherine murmured, bent over the desk at a strange angle, forceps hovering over the rich grain of the wood. Nick saw her hand dip, down and up, her eyes intent on her prize.

"What is it?"

"One long, blonde hair. Stuck in one of the figures."

He quirked an eyebrow, moving to lean lightly against the doorframe. "You sure it's not yours?"

She shot a glare at him, bagging the sample and labeling it. "It's not mine, Nick," she said, surveying the desk more carefully. "But no one in the family is blonde, so…"

Nick nodded slowly, a grin turning at the corner of his mouth. "Looks like our thief may have slipped up after all."

"They always do, Nicky. They always do."

…

"Ryou," Yugi said, prodding at his friend for perhaps the thousandth time in the last quarter-hour. "Ryou, please wake up. You're freaking me out."

_Aibou, his soul is exhausted. It would be best to allow him his rest._

Yugi turned his attention toward the presence standing translucent beside the miniature coffeemaker. _I know, I know. But we don't even know what happened to him! What if it's something serious?_

_It's probably safe to assume as much_, Yami said, frowning thoughtfully. _Considering the circumstances. But to wake him now risks his soul's recovery._

_And Bakura waking up._

Yami lifted one eyebrow, gaze pulling slightly to the left. _I never said that._

"But you were thinking it," said Yugi aloud, finally shifting to fall back into the armchair, still within reach of his sleeping friend. "I know you're worried about the Spirit of the Ring, but when Ryou wakes up, I want to talk to him first." He hesitated, brushing at his bangs before glancing once more toward the spirit. "I'd rather not explain to Grandpa why we're paying damages on a room demolished by shadow magic."

_Yugi_, said Yami, _I'm not going to demolish the…_

Yugi lifted an eyebrow, gazing at his translucent other. The protest fell silent.

…_Well, I wouldn't have done it deliberately._


End file.
